Good Intentions
by storyinmypocket
Summary: The oneshot that was Blood Brothers is now a series called Good Intentions. Actual summary: Roger wants Mark, any way he can have him. Warning for Crazy!Roger. I mean it. Still in progress.
1. Blood Brothers

Roger doesn't remember when he first started looking at Mark this way, when his gaze was first drawn irresistibly to hands and lips and the way Mark moves with an awkwardness that's somehow beautiful.

He also doesn't remember when this particularly poisonous little thought first occurred to him. Mark's been his best friend for years. Mark was the one who held him when he had the shakes and the sweats, who stood between him and the door when he needed a fix so bad he thought his brain was going to explode from pure _need,_ who patiently dragged him back into the world after April, and again after Mimi. Despite all that, he wants to... No. Not despite all that, _because_ of all that. Because Mark's all he has left.

Roger creeps a little further into Mark's room. Mark sleeping is _pretty._ There's no other way to describe it. People say everyone looks innocent when they sleep,but Roger's experience has been that most people just look like themselves, only drooling or snoring or both. Mark... Mark is an exception. Once asleep, he's a child again, that scrawny pale kid with the skinned knees and bruises that Roger took under his wing, years ago. He's innocent and beautiful and so fucking _perfect_ that Roger's heart clenches at the sight of him.

Roger steps closer. Mark went to sleep drunk, and he won't wake up for anything short of the building collapsing. Of course, Roger's a bit drunk himself, and he's probably not quite right in the head at the moment. But, who is he kidding? He hasn't been right in the head since Mimi died. Even Maureen's been acting concerned, and she never notices anything that doesn't affect her directly. Mark's been _very_ concerned. Mark organized tonight for his benefit, to get him out of the apartment, to make him cheer up. And he's grateful for that, he really is. Which is why...

"_I kind of admire how you're still going," Mark had said, after the fifth beer or so. "I mean, no offense, but I couldn't be with someone who had AIDS. Not unless I'd gotten it too. I've got enough problems with watching my friends die. I couldn't lose someone I loved that much, let alone more than one, and just being alone after that. And... oh shit, I should shut up."_

_He was cute when he was babbling drunkenly, Roger reflected. And for once, probably due to the warm and fuzzy alcoholic haze, he wasn't offended. "Well, damn," he said, grinning. "So much for our true love." It was a joke. Just a joke, nothing serious, no matter what thoughts he'd been having lately._

_And then Mark _looked_ at him, his eyes strangely bright, and there was something pained, almost wistful, in them. And Roger forgot how to breathe._

_And everything made sense._

The last few steps to the bed take too long, but finally Roger's looking down at Mark's sleeping face. His glasses are still on, crooked on his nose, and Roger takes them off, folding them with care and setting them aside. There's a small voice in his head screaming that he's crazy, that he has no way of knowing if Mark really wants him just because of a look in his eyes... He ignores it, bending to kiss Mark's forehead, his closed eyes with their silken fringe of ginger-colored lashes. Mark stirs, mumbles something, and falls back to sleep. Everything's going to be okay.

Mark will be able to love him. He won't be alone when he dies. And it's fitting, in a way. Everyone he loves has been doomed from the start. He ignores that small voice when it yells that he's being drunk and stupid. He's been thinking of this for a long time. Tonight just gave him the clarity he needed. Mark wants this too, he knows it.

The syringe is already in his hand, black in the darkness. Roger remembers April, remembers the needle sliding into a vein, easy and sweet. He remembers how to do it, even after all this time. Mark stirs again, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm up, Mom." But Roger's found the vein, and it's easy as breathing to just slide it in. A moment later, they're closer than they've ever been before. Blood brothers. Lovers. It's going to be okay.

It's not murder, this slow death deposited into Mark's bloodstream. It's best for both of them. Really, it is.


	2. Put the Words Together

Roger isn't sure if he should feel guilty. The events of the previous night are a jumble of images and sounds, and he's not sure where reality ends and the dreams from his restless half-sleep on the couch begin, if the needle that slid into Mark's vein (so easy, so very easy) was ever really in his hand or only in his mind.

_There's an easy way to find out,_ the voice of reason whispers. _You remember where you hid the needle. Go. Look in that drawer, see if deep inside it there's a plastic bottle with an empty syringe in it. Just look._

He doesn't.

He looks down instead, at the empty street through the windowpane, and he wonders what it would mean, if he did what he remembers doing. Betrayal, devastation, a death sentence. He could confess, but what would that gain either of them? If he did it, if he did it... Mark will die, likely not long after him. This will happen whether or not he knows.

If he doesn't know, Roger won't be alone. If he doesn't know... If he doesn't know, if Mark just... finds out... then who will he turn to? His best friend.

He's sick for thinking like this, but wasn't he sick already? This was what he wanted, to drag Mark down with him, to claim him in a way that no one else could. Even if he dies tomorrow, Mark will always have part of him. _Forever._

If it happened at all.

If it did, Mark will have this whether or not he knows what happened. Whether or not he hates him. And who will protect him? Who will look after him, make sure he sleeps, who will notice when he comes or goes, who will pry him away from his camera? Who will give a damn about him? Not Maureen. Not Joanne. Collins is back in Boston. Who will he have? Who can love him and understand him like Roger can? No one.

So why should he say anything, real or not? _Friendship, _he thinks. _Honesty._ He believes in those things, in theory, anyway. But what if the preservation of one means the sacrifice of the other? Mark will suffer more if he knows, and it won't change anything. He's been over this.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door to Mark's room opening, and everything else is forgotten as Mark shuffles out, his shirt discarded sometime in the night. His skin glows in the weak light filtering through the windows. The dark circles under his eyes look like they were painted there by a master. He's even pretty _hung over,_ for fuck's sake.

"You're up early,"Mark says, squinting into the morning sunlight, but there's no surprise in his voice. This is a familiar scene for the two of them.

"You know me," Roger says. "If I sleep more than once a month, they take away my tortured artist license."

"We can't have that." He gives Roger a pained smile. "Does your head hurt as much as mine does right now?"

"More."

"You should drink some water or something. Not coffee. It's dehydration."

"Do _you_ want to drink the tap water?" Roger counters.

"On second thought..." Mark shuffles over to the refrigerator and peers inside. "I'm pleased to report the milk is now a solid mass, and is well on its way to developing sentience."

"Good for it. Maybe you could interview it for your documentary." Only a small part of Roger is actually taking part in the conversation. The rest is just staring at the way Mark's pants are clinging to his hips.

"I would, but last I checked, 'documentary' wasn't a euphemism for 'horror movie'." Mark shuts the fridge door and immediately leans into it, pressing his forehead into the cool smoothness.

Roger manages to grin at him. "So why the hell do you film me?"

"Touché."

It's good. It's comfortable. This is what he wants to jeopardize, for what could have been a dream. And then Mark rubs at the crook of his elbow and frowns, and Roger freezes.

"I think something bit me," Mark mumbles, and scratches at it. And Roger can see this scene playing out now... The confession, the look of confusion and betrayal and hurt on Mark's face, and then... then, he doesn't know. He can't predict beyond that moment, but it's going to change everything. And, when he sees how Mark looks at him, the _trust..._ It's going to break them both.

He can't tell him.

So... he's the concerned friend. Mark hasn't been tested in a long time... He can tell Mark that he's worried. He can even wait until the next time Maureen gets bored enough to take Mark out so they can "catch up", which is Maureen-speak for "fuck in a dirty bathroom somewhere and never speak of it again". It's happened once or twice, and Roger's willing to lay odds on it happening again.

After that... There's going to be a period of adjustment. Mark may be as tired of being alone as Roger himself is, but he's not going to welcome death. It's necessary, of course, but even after April, even after he didn't particularly _want_ to live, he was angry... Angry because he should have had the _choice,_ damnit, he should have gotten to pick his own death.

It doesn't even occur to him that he's denied Mark the same choice. It's the step Mark wouldn't have taken, and so Roger's taken it for him. That's how their friendship works. The rationalizations are piling up, but he's had a lot of time to lay the foundations for his own denial. Ever since Mimi's death, in fact. The world just got smaller and smaller until the only thing in it was Mark. Mark and Roger, and love and friendship and closer-than-brothers, but never close enough.

And really, it _is_ better this way. There are no more if-onlys. _If only I wasn't sick. If only Mark was willing to risk it. If only I knew that when I died, he'd come with me... _This is it. He has everything he could want. He can give Mark this time to live as if he's not dying, and Roger can look at him now without his stomach twisting with frustration and longing and need. And then, when he finds out, when the test comes back positive... Roger will be there to pick up the pieces.

He should feel guilty for what he's done. But somehow, guilt feels a lot like relief.

"Hey. You look almost happy for once." Mark comes over and feels his forehead, pretending to be concerned. "Are you sick, or did you actually enjoy yourself last night?" Mark's hand is cool and slightly calloused, and Roger closes his eyes and just _feels._

"...Roger? Getting disturbed, here."

Roger's eyes fly open and he's smiling suddenly, really smiling in a way that he hasn't since Mimi got sick for the last time. And then their arms are wrapped around each other, and Roger is laughing, and Mark is laughing with him even though he doesn't know the joke, but it doesn't matter because Roger's smiling again.

Finally Roger pulls away, grinning broadly and wiping tears from his eyes. "Sorry. It's just I think... I think last night was just what I needed... I think things are going to be okay now."

And Mark is smiling back, and everything is the way it should be.


	3. In the Blood

This isn't happening.

This isn't fucking happening.

Mark stares at the paper in his hands, Roger hovering over him, looking worried. _That's_ familiar, in a weird, backwards way. Just a couple of years ago, he was here with Roger, looking over his shoulder at an identical piece of paper.

Only one word stands out, and it's just like then... Just fucking like two years ago, only this time it's _him,_ not Roger, this time he can't just detach, trying not to feel relieved deep down that _he's_ still okay.

POSITIVE.

He reads it again and again, trying to figure out when this could've happened... _How_ this could've happened. He's been careful. He's been so fucking careful...

Maureen. It had to have been. He hasn't been with anyone else.

He doesn't realize he's crying until the first drops hit the paper.

Roger's arm is suddenly around his shoulders, and it helps. Roger knows, Roger's been there, and he won't be alone through this, and that makes things okay enough that he can look up and force words past the lump in his throat.

"Let's get home. I've got to call Maureen..."

Roger nods knowingly, not even pretending to be surprised. On reflection, it was probably obvious. He never could say no to her, and now he's going to die because of it.

Fucking figures.

As he looks up into Roger's concerned expression, all he can think is that at least there's _one_ person in his life he can still trust. His best friend. His _brother,_ in everything but genetics. Just knowing he's there is more of a relief than he could ever say.

Because, really, where the hell would he be without Roger?


	4. If the Lie Succeeds

The phone rings, and Roger winces. He knows what's coming, known ever since Mark made that phone call a week ago.

_"Maureen? Get tested. Now. I've got AIDS. ... How do you **think? ...** Looks like it to me. ... Whatever. Bye."_

Now he's trying not to panic, throttling down the fear just like he chokes down stage fright before every big show. Nothing has to show, he has to remain cool and calm.

"SPEAK..."

"Mark? Mark, you little _shit_, pick up the phone!"

Roger watches out of the corner of his eye as Mark stares at the machine, obviously torn. He takes a few steps towards it, then stops as Maureen's voice rings out again.

"Listen, I just thought you should know, since you're _obviously_ not going to talk to me, that I tested _negative._ So I don't know what the hell _you've_ been doing, but nice try blaming me. Joanne's not fucking talking to me anymore, because I had to _tell_ her, and so you've just wrecked my life for nothing. I hope you're happy. Do you even _have_ AIDS, or is this just some plot to get me back? Fuck you very much, Mark."

Alarm and confusion flicker over Mark's face, and Roger's already halfway out of his chair, getting ready to go to him, when Mark dashes for the phone.

"Maureen? _Maureen?_" Roger can hear the dial tone from where he is. "Fuck." Finally, Mark looks up at him, his eyes troubled. "I don't understand. If she's negative..."

So this is it. This is where he has to say something, one way or another, truth or lie. No more just neglecting to tell him and telling himself it doesn't count...

"...I don't know." He could say the lost, confused look in Mark's eyes convinced him, but he knows he's not that selfless. "We've been living together for years, and you know how careful I am about not bleeding on anything when I cut myself, shit like that... but it could have been me. Some random bit of blood, getting hurt while we were drunk and just not noticing..." The words rush out of his mouth, and he doesn't have to fake the sadness in his voice, not when Mark's looking at him like that. "Fuck, could have been _Collins,_ but if it was me..."

He turns away, grateful that his face settles into pretty much the same lack of expression no matter now upset he is. There's no use in Mark getting suspicious now, and if he just happens to assume that the blank face that's covering his nervousness is guilt, so much the better.

_Please, God, let him believe it... _And if the slow, hesitant steps he hears coming towards him are any indication, he does.

Mark puts a hand on his shoulder. "Roger... Whatever it was, it's not your fault."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do." Mark's holding him by both shoulders now, turning so that those shining blue eyes are looking straight into his. For a second he's afraid, because those fucking eyes feel like they're looking right into him, like they can see everything, every little thought, every secret. He looks away, biting his lip. "Damnit, Roger, don't start with the guilt! I _need_ you right now, okay? Don't fall apart on me."

Mark needs him. Mark _needs _him. The worry disappears like it was never there, because _Mark needs him_ and if he ever wanted confirmation of the rightness of everything he'd done, that was it.

His arms slip over Mark's shoulders, pulling him close. Mark smells like coffee and cheap store-brand shampoo and Ivory soap, and under that is a fresh, green smell like the grass after it rains, with a sharper note running through it that could only be fear.

_Of course he's afraid,_ Roger realizes. Mark's always been isolated, but now he _needs_ to reach out, to find some sort of anchor, and there's no one else to hold on to. And if anyone knows what _that_ feels like...

He whispers, because he doesn't trust his own voice. "I'm sorry. I'm here for you, I just... I don't want to have hurt you."

"You didn't. You wouldn't." Mark's relaxing into the hug, arms wrapping tight around him, and he's soft and warm and feels so _good_ that Roger has to restrain himself from leaning down and kissing him.

_There's time,_ he reminds himself. It's just the two of them now. Now and forever.

And as Mark clings to him, Roger smiles.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but after four revisions, I think it's as good as it's gonna get. Meh. Good Intentions will get better, I promise. Right now I'm just pissed at Roger for being a complete bastard in this chapter. I tried to make him sweeter, but no. No matter how much he loves Mark in his own fucked up way, right now he's just being an utter selfish prick, and I'm hating him a lot.

Tons of thanks to all of you that have been reading and reviewing. Without your comments, I'd probably wouldn't have gotten this far, and there's a long way to go yet, so keep reviewing, please. Yes, even if you hate it. I like knowing what I've done wrong as well as what I've gotten right.

For those of you that liked the playful snark in Chapter 2, I can promise you now, it's coming back next chapter. Also, kissing! Finally! And kissing is good, except when it really, really isn't. And that's all the spoilers you get, now run along and play or something.


	5. Somebody Told Me

Mark's been staring at the film for the past half hour. He's supposed to be editing this, but it's not making any sense to him anymore. Nothing makes sense, not his life, not his film, nothing.

His thoughts keep coming back to Roger, and it's not a comfortable feeling. Roger's been supportive, yeah, but there's something _wrong,_ something he can't put his finger on, and it bothers him.

Almost as much as the fact that he can't sleep without Roger there anymore. It made sense, at first, when he couldn't sleep for days. Saw the doctor, got pills that left him feeling wretchedly hung over in the morning, and it was back to staring at the ceiling for hours on end, until one night he ended up crying on Roger's shoulder again, and falling asleep there. And Roger just _let_ him.

And one night turned into two, and soon he was sleeping in Roger's bed every night. A little weird, yeah, but they'd shared a bed before, back when they were kids. So he's comforted by his best friend's presence, big deal, right?

He just can't shake the feeling that he's missing something important.

The phone rings, shocking him out of his reverie, and he winces. It could only be two people, Maureen or his mother, neither of whom he really wants to hear from at the moment... But to his surprise, it's neither.

"Hey, Mark, you there? It's Collins. Pick up the phone, man..."

Mark trips over his own feet on the way to the phone, yet somehow makes it, narrowly avoiding crashing into the table. "Collins?"

"Yeah. What the hell's going on over there? Maureen called me up with some bullshit story about you lying about having HIV to ruin her life or some shit like that. You okay?" Collins sounds worried and a little pissed, something Mark's never heard before.

He takes a deep breath and starts answering questions. "Yeah, I'm okay. Well, kind of. I'm... I'm positive, yeah. As for what's going on, I have _no idea._ I thought I got it from Maureen, but she's negative, and I haven't _been_ with anyone else, and Roger said it could have been him, maybe, if he got hurt or something, and then he started getting that blank face he gets when he's really upset, and you know he wouldn't have, I mean, you're both so careful, but the fact remains that I have AIDS and I don't know how or why or what happened and my _God_ my life makes no _sense_ anymore!" The words are pouring out, and a small, rational part of Mark's mind is calmly noting that, okay, _this_ is what hysteria feels like, and isn't it an interesting sensation? He should be getting this on film...

Collins' voice is low, soothing, the edge of anger gone. "Hey, hey, slow down. Okay, you're HIV positive, you don't know how... What's your T-cell count?"

"245." Mark can almost _feel_ Collins wince over the phone.

"Okay. Okay. That's not good, but it's not critical, either. You don't even officially have AIDS yet, if you're above 200. You've still got time, you can figure this out, as long as you keep taking your AZT. Okay?"

"Okay." He _knows_ this. Wasn't he telling the same thing to Roger not that long ago? But it's different now, it's different now that his life's the one being measured in numbers and countdowns and years instead of decades, and the enormity of it has him scared all over again, and guilty, and all he wants is to break down crying... But what does that mean to everyone else, if he can be so calm and steady with them, and break down when it's finally him?

"Mark? Mark, man, if you need to let it out..."

"No. I'm fine." He's proud of how steady his voice sounds.

"Hey, look, if you need me to come over there..."

"No. I've... got Roger." And that brings back everything he's been trying not to think about for the past half hour.

There's a long pause. "Everything okay with him? You sound a little less than thrilled about that."

"It's fine. He's been great. Really supportive."

"...But?"

Mark sighs and tries to find words. "He... He's always _there._ If I need anything, he's already got it in his hands before I can get up. He's just being so... aggressively supportive. Almost like he's _happy_ that I'm positive." And, as he says it, he knows it's the truth.

"Man..." Collins is silent for a moment. "Look. You know the boy loves you."

"_What?_" The word comes out as a squeak.

Collins snorts softly, and Mark is sure he can hear him rolling his eyes. "Not like that. What is it about you straight boys, think everyone wants to get in your pants? He's your best friend. He loves you. Like a brother. And you've been taking care of him for so long, he finally gets to return the favor."

"I guess..."

"You _guess._" Collins scoffs. "What the hell is there to guess? You really think he'd want you to get sick?"

"He's been kinda weird lately. Since Mimi." It comes out as a whisper, something he's afraid to admit even to himself, that after the first outpouring of grief, Roger's just been... wrong.

"Losing someone you love will do that to you." The grief in Collins' voice is as raw as it was when they lost Angel, and Mark swallows. _I'm such an idiot..._

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"No, it's okay. But still, cut the boy some slack, okay? Mimi's not the first one he's lost. It's gonna be hard as hell on him. And, given that, given that he's lost April and Mimi... You _really_ think he'd want you to go like that?"

"...No." He doesn't say that Collins hasn't been there, hasn't _seen_ Roger. He doesn't mention how Roger didn't speak for a month, barely ate, barely even _moved._ How even when Roger started talking again, it was so much worse than it had been with April... At least withdrawal was _something._ Not just sitting there, unmoving, with dead eyes and the odd monosyllabic reply.

He doesn't say that he didn't think Roger was ever going to recover, and that the fact that he _did_ is somehow frightening. Not that he's sorry to have his best friend back, but... It's all wrong, somehow.

He trusts Collins instead, because that's all he can do.

"You really think that's it?" He can't stop himself from voicing the question.

"Of course I do. What, you really think the he's obsessing over you or something?"

"...um. If you'd asked me that before, I'd have said no, but... I'm sleeping in his bed now. I can't sleep unless he's... holding me. And... um... he holds me pretty tight. I have to pry myself away from him in the mornings." Mark's cringing as he confesses this. Not quite how he wanted to say it, that part about not being able to sleep...

"And you think _he's_ got a crush on _you?_" Collins is teasing him now, he can hear it. Great. "You sure it's not the other way 'round?"

"Fuck you."

"I thought you didn't swing that way." Collins laughs. "Look, just because he cares about you, it doesn't mean he wants in your pants, okay? The sleeping thing... Come on, he probably thinks you're his teddy bear or something. How long's it been since you got some, anyway?"

"Too long, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing, maybe a lot. Try going out, finding a nice girl at Life Support. You _need_ to get laid."

"Thanks a whole fucking lot, Collins." He's scowling at the phone, even though he knows Collins can't see him. "Look, I've gotta go. Roger's going to be back any minute."

"Wait, what? He left the house? I figured he was asleep or something if you were talking about him like that."

Mark sighs and wraps the phone cord around his fingers. "No, he's been going out lately. Getting food, stuff like that. Being obnoxiously helpful."

"Oh." Collins considers this for a moment. "Kind of like you were?"

"It's not the same!" Even as he protests, he knows just how lame he must sound. Maybe Collins is right...

"Right. Sure it's not. Because _you_ didn't worry more than his own mama would have when _he_ tested positive. Haven't you ever hand someone fuss over you before?"

"Other than my mom, no." Mark sighs and frees his fingers from the cord. "I guess you're right, though."

"Bitch, you _know _I'm right. I always am. And I meant what I said about getting some."

Mark laughs, despite himself. "Right. I'll keep that in mind. I've really gotta go now, though."

"Right. Later. Much love."

There's a click, and Mark puts the phone down, smiling a little. Collins is right. Of course he is. Roger's just acting exactly the way Mark himself did.

Nothing to worry about.

* * *

Okay. I promised kissing in this chapter. Sadly, Collins decided to take the entire thing over, and not just get off the phone and let Roger come home like he should have. Next chapter. Really. And hey, if you like my writing, and believe in supporting queer-friendly causes, check my profile for a link to my Blogathon project for this year.  



	6. And Now the Cracks

When Roger finally comes home, arms loaded down with bags, Mark's sitting sideways on the sofa, knees to his chest, lost in thought.

"Hey," Roger whispers. "Everything okay?"

Mark looks up at him, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking." This is so obviously a lie that Roger doesn't even bother pretending to accept it.

Instead, he just kneels on the sofa facing Mark, wrapping arms around Mark's legs and sliding into a comfortable sprawl with his chin on Mark's knees. Their faces are inches apart, Mark's legs are against Roger's chest (so thin... he's so _thin_...), and Roger's eyes are staring into endless blue that's usually obscured by his glasses. This close, though, the thick lenses don't make any difference.

"Brooding and insisting nothing's wrong is _my_ routine. Get your own."

"I'm not brooding," Mark mutters, looking away and biting his lip.

"Sure you're not. You always sit curled up in a little ball like this and stare at nothing in particular." Roger snorts. "When you're _thinking,_ you pace. You only curl up like that and gnaw on your bottom lip when you're brooding."

Mark stops gnawing. "Just how do you know all this?"

"I pay attention. How can you tell when I'm really sick or just hiding?"

"You get this little whine in your voice when you're sick and... Okay. Right. I get it."

"Yeah." Roger grins at him and leans in just a bit more. "So what's wrong?"

"Collins called." Mark's still not looking at him, and it makes Roger's heart break all over again, watching him like that.

"You told him?"

Mark nods. Roger reaches out and ruffles Mark's hair comfortingly, though he's distracted by the feel of golden silk between his fingers.

"I'm feeling a little better now, anyway. Bad day."

Roger pulls away. "Well, mine was pretty good. At least, the tourists were nice to the scruffy guy with the guitar. I scored us takeout."

"Chinese, as usual?"

"You know it." He rummages through the bags he brought in with him, and hands Mark a carton and a pair of wooden chopsticks before settling down at the other end of the couch and opening his own. The scent of Hunan pork wafts up from the carton, and he smiles suddenly, spearing a piece of pork with his fork and waving it under Mark's nose.

"Look Mark, pork! Poooork... Doesn't it smell _good?_ Bet you'd like to have some, but Jews can't eat _pork,_ Mark..." It's stupid, but good old Roger Davis-brand stupidity never fails to make Mark smile.

Mark looks up from his vegetables and rice and raises an eyebrow. "I was never that good a Jew." He opens his mouth and neatly bites it off Roger's fork, chewing contentedly.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, Mark, but you've just lost all your Jew points. God doesn't love you anymore."

"You're right," Mark says, nodding seriously. "I'll have to have a very serious talk with Rabbi Himmelfarb next time I go home." He starts to smile a little then, and Roger smiles back.

It's funny, he thinks, how his own spirits seem tied to that soft upward curve of Mark's lips. All Mark has to do is smile, and everything's fine again.

"When _are_ you going home again?" Roger asks him.

"No time soon," Mark mutters around a mouthful of rice. "I can just see her reaction when she sees me taking my AZT..."

"What, you still haven't told her?"

"...That her darling baby has _the AIDS?"_ Mark scowls at his food. "Can't you just _see_ her reaction?"

Roger grimaces. "Let me see if I can get this right: Marky, sweetie, I _told_ you!" He's been around Mrs. Cohen enough to be able to mimic her voice reasonably well, at least. "I _told_ you what would happen if you moved to the city with all those _artists_ and people on _drugs_ and that _Davis_ boy! But you never listen to me, because God forbid you should listen to your own mother for once, and now look at what's happened to my perfect baby!"

"And that," Mark says, poking Roger with a chopstick, "is why I never pick up the phone when she calls. If I need to hear her nagging me, I can just ask you to do the voice."

"I live to serve," Roger says, smirking. "Speaking of... You want tea or something?"

"Mmm. Please."

He gets up, maybe a little too eagerly, but making tea gives him a perfect opportunity to watch Mark. He puts water on to boil and leans against the fridge, watching as Mark picks at his dinner, oblivious. He has a particular fascination with watching Mark use chopsticks... For all the comments about musicians having talented hands, it's a skill he's never mastered.

Watching someone eat with a pair of sticks shouldn't be erotic, he tells himself. It's just Mark, eating, the same way he always does. Nothing special about that. But that doesn't keep him from watching as each tiny morsel passes Mark's lips, and wondering just how long he'll be able to keep taking things slow.

The teakettle whistles, and he jumps, turning off the hot plate and dropping a teabag into Mark's favorite mug.

_Okay,_ he thinks, _time to relax a little._ But Mark makes relaxing so very, very hard. He turns again and peers into the fridge.

"Whose beer?" he askes, pulling out a lone bottle of Dos Equis.

"Yours, if you want it," Mark calls back, and Roger cracks it open and drinks greedily. Something needs to happen. Something needs to happen _soon._

Once he's got a bit of beer in him, it's enough to calm him down so he can pour hot water into Mark's mug and bring it and his beer over to the couch. He sets the mug on the table by Mark to steep, and while he's doing that, he swears he can _smell_ Mark, even under the tea and Chinese food. He takes another long pull from his bottle, and settles down on the couch again, contemplating that perhaps waiting for Mark to realize how much they need each other wasn't the best idea.

The line between 'things Mark needs to figure out for himself' and 'things Roger needs to figure out for Mark' keeps blurring in his head, and he's got a vague suspicion that's a bad thing.

On the other hand, things have gone so _well_ so far...

Mark seems content to eat in silence and let him brood over it, which is all to the better as far as he's concerned. It's a given that Mark loves him, that he wants this as much as Roger does; Roger's long since learned to ignore the little voice that asks him if he's _sure_ about that. If he wasn't sure, he wouldn't have done what he did. Otherwise, that would make him...

He doesn't finish that thought.

So Mark wants this, but obviously, he's still adjusting to the fact that they're both positive. Still, Roger could... help him adjust? Maybe.

He's so lost in those thoughts, chasing each other round and round in his head, that he only looks up once Mark clears his throat.

"I'm... kind of tired," Mark says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

Mark's takeout carton is empty, and so's Roger's, for that matter. Roger wonders how long he's been sitting there with his thoughts going in circles, but it doesn't matter, because this is a sign.

This _has_ to be a sign.

He follows Mark into the bedroom, watching him strip down to just corduroys, and every movement's a kind of perfection, even when Mark bangs his knee on the dresser and curses under his breath. And when Mark pulls on a t-shirt, that's a bit disappointing, but still okay. Roger watches the skin slide over the sharp angles of his shoulderblades as he pulls the shirt on, and it's _better_ than okay.

Roger, for his part, just peels his shirt off and climbs into bed wearing jeans and socks. Already, his skin's itching for the feel of Mark against him, and when Mark climbs into the bed next to him and rests a head on his shoulder, it's so good it makes his nerves ache.

He wraps an arm around Mark's waist, telling himself that if it's a sign, Mark will do something. If it's a sign, Mark will do something. If it's a sign, Mark will _do_ something, but Mark's breathing is evening out as he falls asleep, and it's entirely likely it wasn't a sign at all.

Unless it was a sign _he_ should do something. He promised himself he'd let Mark take the lead, but...

But Mark's lips are so close, breath warm against his skin, body pressed to his, and Roger can smell him, feel him, almost _taste_ him. _Needs_ to taste him. One kiss won't hurt, with Mark soundly asleep.

Just one kiss.

He shifts in bed, tilting Mark's face towards his, and Mark's lips are parted, and it's nothing much to just brush his lips across Mark's, or to dart out a moist tongue, _tasting_...

And then he can't remember why just _one_ kiss was worrying him so much. He's kissing Mark deep and lovingly, and Mark's moving against him, still mostly asleep, and kissing back, and this... This is _right_.

And then Mark opens his eyes. And everything goes wrong.

Mark's shoving him away roughly, and the look in his eyes is pure panic, thin hands clutching Roger's shoulders. This is all wrong. _All wrong._

_Wrong wrong wrong,_ echoes the voice in his head, and a dimmer echo of _crazy_ and _murderer,_ which can't be what's going on because didn't Mark want this?

Mark doesn't look like he wants this, though. Mark is wide-eyed and shaking and holding him at arm's length, looking like he's still not sure what's going on, and Roger does the only thing he can think of.

"I'll go."

Mark curls in on himself as if he's been hit, still shaking, and Roger grabs his pillow.

"It's your bed," Mark says finally, and Roger just shakes his head.

"My fault. I'll go."

"Look, I'm sorry! I'm just not like... I didn't think...! Roger, _don't,_" he says, but Roger's aready grabbing a spare blanket, and Mark's not moving, which just confirms this was exactly what he shouldn't have done.

Roger's cold and he's alone, and everything is wrong, and so he leaves Mark there in his bed, shaking and staring into the darkness after him.

He thinks maybe he hears Mark sniffling a little, but he's probably wrong about that, too.


End file.
